GARY FOLLOWED ANTRIM ONTO THE CONSTRUCTION SITE. They wove a path through heavy equipment across the damp soil, dodging puddles from yesterday’s rain. A massive concrete shell lay inside one of the open trenches, twenty feet down, its damp walls being dried by the afternoon sun. Eventually, the entire structure would be covered with dirt. For now, though, its sides, roof, pipes, and cables were exposed, the rectangle stretching fifty yards toward the river, where it disappeared into the ground, beneath a section of closed-off street.
They climbed down into the wet trench, using one of the wooden ladders, and made their way toward a yawn in the earth that opened into a darkened chasm. He blinked the sun from his eyes and adjusted to the dim light. Concrete wall rose to his left, bare earth to his right, the path well traveled, the dirt here dry and compact beneath his sneakers.
Antrim stopped and signaled for quiet.
He heard nothing save for the rumble of the nearby traffic.
An opening in the wall could be seen ahead.
Antrim approached, glanced inside, then motioned for him to follow. They entered and saw that the exposed structure housed a rail line, the tracks in disrepair, rebar everywhere awaiting wet cement. Incandescent floodlights burned bright, illuminating the windowless space. He wondered how Antrim knew where to go, but assumed the email earlier in the café had provided the necessary information.
Antrim hopped up to another level from the dirt around the tracks and they crept deeper inside. The cool air smelled of wet mud and dry cement. More tripods with flood lamps lit the way. He estimated they were at least twenty feet underground, beneath the glass-fronted building overhead. They came to a wide-open space that funneled to shafts angling farther down into the ground.
“This foyer is where passengers will come down from above, then make their way to the tracks,” Antrim whispered.
Gary glanced into one of the down shafts. The next level was fifty feet beneath him. No steps or escalator were present. More lights burned below. Another wooden ladder, one of several propped in the shaft, allowed a way down.
“That’s where we have to go,” Antrim said.
KATHLEEN FOLLOWED MALONE AS THEY EXITED THE UNDERGROUND station and found the Embankment. The dome of St. Paul’s rose not far in the distance, the Thames less than fifty meters to their right, Blackfriars station straight ahead. Both of them still carried their weapons. Malone had stayed silent after he explained what he wanted her to do. She hadn’t argued. This was a trap, no other way to view it. To walk in unprepared would be foolhardy.
And even though Thomas Mathews held the superior position—since he seemed to know exactly where Blake Antrim would be—Malone had wisely demanded proof of Gary’s presence.
So they’d been waiting.
Malone’s phone vibrated, signaling an incoming email. He opened the message, which came with a video attachment.
They watched on the screen as Blake Antrim and Gary walked through what appeared to be a construction site. They were inside a windowless space, Antrim easing himself onto a ladder, disappearing downward.
Then Gary climbed onto the rungs and vanished.
The message contained in the email was concise.
PROOF ENOUGH?
She saw the concern in Malone’s face. But she also saw the frustration, as there was no way to know where the video had originated.
Best guess?
Blackfriar’s station. About a kilometer away.
They stood just outside the Inns of Court.
Back where it all started yesterday.
“Do what I asked,” Malone said.
And he walked off.
Fifty-eight
ANTRIM HOPPED FROM THE LADDER AND SAW HE WAS STANDING on what would eventually be a train platform, the tracks there, five feet below the concrete, exiting one tunnel then entering another. He noticed how lights indicated that the rails were active, signs warning to be wary of high voltage. The Circle and District lines ran straight through Blackfriars, two of London’s main east–west Underground routes. Millions traveled those lines every week. They could not be blocked. So the trains kept coming, back and forth, though none stopped here.
Gary finished his descent and stood beside him.
More lights on tripods illuminated the work area.
Tile was being applied to the walls, a cheery color in a mosaic pattern. The entire platform was being refurbished, construction materials everywhere.
“Mr. Antrim.”
The gravelly voice startled him.
He turned to see Sir Thomas Mathews standing fifty feet away, without his signature cane.
The older man motioned.
“This way.”
MALONE ENTERED THE INNS OF COURT AND REPLAYED THOMAS Mathews’ instructions in his mind. Beneath the ground on which he walked flowed the Fleet River. Its origin lay four miles to the north, once a major London water source. But by the Middle Ages a burgeoning populace had totally polluted the flow, its odor so horrendous that Victorian engineers finally enclosed it, making the Fleet the largest of the city’s subterranean rivers. He’d read about the maze of chambers and tunnels that crisscrossed Holborn, channeling the water to the Thames.
“Go to the Inns,” Mathews said. “North of the Temple Church, adjacent to the master’s house, is the Goldsmith building. In its basement is access. It will be open and waiting for you.”
“Then where?”
“Follow the electrical cables.”
He turned right and negotiated King’s Bench Walk. He entered the church court, filled with weekend visitors, and passed the Temple Round. He spotted the brick house labeled GOLDSMITH and entered through the main door, locking the latch behind him. A staircase was visible at the end of a short hall. He descended to a basement with walls of hewn stone. Two bare bulbs hung from the low ceiling. In the floor, across from the base of the stairs, an iron door was hinged open.
He stepped over and glanced inside.
A metal ladder led down ten feet to a dirt floor.